"penitentiary" poems - Hello Poetry

the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that. but to get to the Northwest, Interstate 84 ain’t le route plus directe nope curve north to Ontario, wave to Bex as I cross over London and Toronto, also can’t recall which poet from Rochester hails, or did they shuffle off to Buffalo? Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all, brings to mind my mother’s birthplace, Last of the Mohicans, and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary, where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play of cowboys and Indians but by god, it made me the penitent fella I am today Look skyward to Montreal, yes, there he is, the Leo Priest, the baffled king, blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip with a smiling unsurprising hallelujah Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada, even if one forgot their passports, and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT) over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane, a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen, surely they still speak poetic English there in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap wow there really is a Saskatoon! the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats to help turn the plane so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver... me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High, considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial, as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a huuuuuge grin see the distant Cascades through a crack in the shuttered windows, must be close to “the coast” (as if, harrumph, there were but one) ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking must be getting close to Oregon, where poets grow on trees, woody words like **** and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea gonna drink me some poets under the table cause this trip I ain’t no driving and I am already “flying” ‘n scribing and arriving on a high tide and a good wind

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Jun 7, 2018

Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Songs of Going to Oregon: No. 2 But Who Knew?

the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that. but to get to the Northwest, Interstate 84 ain’t le route plus directe nope curve north to Ontario, wave to Bex as I cross over London and Toronto, also can’t recall which poet from Rochester hails, or did they shuffle off to Buffalo? Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all, brings to mind my mother’s birthplace, Last of the Mohicans, and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary, where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play of cowboys and Indians but by god, it made me the penitent fella I am today Look skyward to Montreal, yes, there he is, the Leo Priest, the baffled king, blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip with a smiling unsurprising hallelujah Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada, even if one forgot their passports, and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT) over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane, a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen, surely they still speak poetic English there in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap wow there really is a Saskatoon! the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats to help turn the plane so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver... me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High, considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial, as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a huuuuuge grin see the distant Cascades through a crack in the shuttered windows, must be close to “the coast” (as if, harrumph, there were but one) ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking must be getting close to Oregon, where poets grow on trees, woody words like **** and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea gonna drink me some poets under the table cause this trip I ain’t no driving and I am already “flying” ‘n scribing and arriving on a high tide and a good wind